


#SPNStayAtHome Challenge Fics

by FriendofCarlotta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also Bad at Relationships, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, But Also Sweet Domesticity, But They Try And Sometimes They're Soft Boys Together, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas and Dean Are Bad at Words, Case Fic, Dean Winchester Uses Alcohol As a Coping Mechanism, Endverse!Cas Uses Painkillers As a Coping Mechanism, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Getting Together, Harm to Animals (One Dog At Least), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, There is some angst here, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: This series of 10 short stories was written for the#SPNStayAtHome challenge. Each one is based on a single-word prompt. They are completely independent of each other and can be read in any order you like, though I did write "Heaven" to feel like an epilogue of sorts to Dean and Cas' story. Enjoy!1. Feather (Modern AU, getting together)2. Gentleman (Canonverse, getting together)3. Thief (Canonverse, established relationship)4. Bet (Endverse, grand romantic gestures/getting together)5. Motel (Canonverse, case fic/angst with a happy ending)6. Jealous (Canonverse, established relationship)7. Thunderstorm (College AU, getting together, kind of, but mostly sarcastic banter)8. Hope (Canonverse, Cas discovers the beauty and confusion of human emotion)9. Undercover (AU based on "Rear Window", falling in love while solving a murder together)10. Heaven (Canonverse, post-canon/established relationship)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Others (Mentioned), Dean Winchester/Others (mentioned)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 134





	1. Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 Summary: Since he was three years old, Dean's been finding feathers. They always seem to show up when he's just escaped bodily injury or even just severe embarrassment. Dean becomes maybe just a little obsessed with them.

The first time Dean finds a feather, he’s three years old. 

It’s a small, downy thing, not even as big as his fist. 

He’s been running around the yard barefoot when he feels something like a touch on his arm. He stops to investigate, but all he sees is a feather, on the ground in front of him. Black as midnight and soft as cotton. 

Dean barely even notices the bee next to it. The one he was about to step on. Years later, he’ll find out that he’s severely allergic to bee stings. 

As he grows older, there are more feathers. Sometimes they’re small and soft, like that first one. Sometimes they’re 20 inches long, solid and gleaming. He saves them all in a box inside his closet. He never shows anyone. 

Dean becomes maybe a little bit obsessed with feathers over the years. He does a ton of internet research and buys every bird guide he can get his hands on. He finds plenty of black birds, but none that quite fit. None that are as black as the end of the world, but somehow shine in all the colors of the rainbow when the light hits them just right. 

And anyway, why would a black bird follow him around? 

He does notice a few trends though. Usually, whenever he finds a feather, he’s just escaped something. Could be physical injury, or even just severe embarrassment. (Like that time he almost walked out of the bathroom and straight into a job interview with toilet paper stuck to his shoe, but then something tripped him and he got a good look at the problem from his vantage point on the bathroom floor. That, and the massive black feather next to one of the sinks.) 

There’s another thing. He never dates. Well, not never. He sometimes goes on a date, and he definitely has sex. A lot of sex, with a lot of girls and the occasional guy. But he never lets anyone get too close. Because he’s waiting for something. Or someone. He’s honestly not sure. 

Sometimes, his parents comment on it, or Sammy. But after he shuts them down enough times, they stop. 

He makes a pretty decent wage from his job at the garage and so, when he turns 25, he decides to buy a house. If anyone notices that he puts more thought into furnishing the guest bedroom than just about any other room, they don’t mention it. 

Then, a few months after Dean’s 28th birthday, the feathers stop. Months go by, and there isn’t a single feather. 

Of course, it’s not like the things had been dropping every single day. So he isn’t really worried until the morning he trips in the shower and breaks his leg. He hasn’t broken anything in his entire life. 

The day after the cast comes off, there’s a knock on the door. 

Dean’s not expecting anyone. For a minute, he thinks about pretending he isn’t home, but in the end, he heaves a sigh and hobbles to the door. His leg is mostly healed, but it still feels a little stiff. 

There’s a guy on the other side of the door. He’s about Dean’s height, maybe a little shorter, and he’s wearing a boxy, oversized trench coat on top of a wrinkled, navy-blue suit. Messy, dark-brown hair sits on top of a slightly stubbly jaw that frames eyes as blue as an ocean at sunrise. 

And that’s easily the sappiest thing Dean’s ever thought. 

Dean knows, logically, that he’s never seen this guy before. But when those blue eyes meet his, the strangest feeling of familiarity washes over him. And then Dean realizes. This is what he’s been waiting for all his life. He’s been waiting for this guy to show up on his doorstep. 

For a while, they just kind of stare at each other. 

Finally, Dean clears his throat and asks, “Um. Can I help you?” Because that seems like a rational thing to say. Even if this whole thing is as far from rational as it gets. 

The guy nods, eyes lighting up with determination. “My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of Lord.” He hesitates, and something shutters behind his eyes. “At least, I used to be.” He digs in the pocket of his coat until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s a feather. Ruffled and battered, but definitely a feather. Black as the end of the world, but shining in all the colors of the rainbow when the sun hits it.

Castiel holds the feather up for Dean to inspect. “This is my last feather. It’s yours if you want it.” 

Dean feels like he should be saying something; ask a couple of questions maybe. But his mind is a total blank. 

So instead, he steps forward and hugs Castiel for all he’s worth. The feather gets a little squashed, probably. He feels Castiel exhale against his chest, practically melting into him. When Castiel steps back, he looks at Dean with something uncomfortably close to adoration.

“Angels aren’t supposed to interfere in the lives of humans, you know,” Castiel says, studying the feather in his hand. It’s a little bent, but still beautiful. Dean smiles at it. “I was on Earth for a mission when I happened to walk by your house. I saw that you were about to step on a bee, and I held you back.” 

Castiel smiles; a quiet, shy thing. “I‘ve always liked bees, so I wanted to save this one. But when I touched your arm, I saw you. I saw your soul and knew its beauty in an instant.” 

Dean shuffles his feet. He’s on his porch, talking to, for all intents and purposes, a stranger, and he’s pretty sure he’s blushing like a teenage girl who’s just been asked to prom. What a day. 

Castiel is still talking, eyes fixing Dean with a steady, earnest gaze. “I also realized that in saving the bee, I had saved you. You would have died from that bee sting. It seemed… meant to be. So I kept watching you.” A shadow moves across Castiel’s face. “But as I said, angels aren’t supposed to interfere in humans’ lives. So every time I kept you from harm, I lost a feather from my wings until I only had one left. I was given a choice: keep the last feather and agree to never visit you again, or forfeit my place among the Host. I made my choice.” 

He holds up the feather again and pushes it toward Dean. Dean swallows.

“Cas… I don’t know what to say. That’s your last feather. Don’t you want to keep it?” 

“Cas…” he says, thoughtfully. “I like that.” Then, he smiles again. “No, Dean. It’s yours. They’re all yours.” 

Cas turns around and starts to climb down the stairs. Dean is more confused than he’s ever been in his life. “Cas? Where are you going?” 

Cas turns and raises an eyebrow at Dean. “I’m leaving. I didn’t want to agree to Heaven’s ultimatum, but I realize that I’m no longer useful to you. I have no place in your life now. I’ll leave you be.” 

Now that’s something Dean definitely can’t let him do. He steps up to Cas and grabs his shoulder so he’s forced to face Dean fully. “You’re not going anywhere. You’ve watched over me my entire life. The least I can do is return the favor.” 

Dean grins shyly, and he’s definitely blushing again. “Besides… there’s a room in my house that’s, um… well, it’s yours if you want it.” He shuffles his feet, finding it pretty hard to meet those blue eyes staring at him. “I mean, if you don’t have anyplace better to be.” 

Suddenly, Cas’ hand is on Dean’s chin, tilting his head up. Cas leans forward and presses a soft, chaste kiss to Dean’s lips. When the kiss ends, Dean can feel Cas’ smile against his lips. 

“I’d like that,” Cas says. Cas moves into the guest room that same day. 

A week later, he moves into Dean’s bedroom instead. And that’s where he stays.


	2. Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel knows Dean is good at giving advice, even if he isn't good at following it. So when Dean keeps telling Castiel to be a gentleman if he wants to "get with anyone" ... well, maybe it's time to follow Dean's advice.

“If you ever want to get with anyone, Cas, you got to be a gentleman.” 

This is the piece of advice Dean inevitably gives whenever he sees a woman glance Castiel’s way. Despite having lived on Earth for more than a decade now, Castiel still has trouble identifying the signs that someone is flirting with him.

Dean, on the other hand, seems incredibly attuned to these flirtations whenever they happen and never fails to comment on them. 

Castiel generally isn’t interested in the women — or sometimes men — in question, beyond noticing in a sort of detached way when they’re pleasing to look at. So whenever Dean encourages him to be a gentleman, Castiel tends to shrug it off and move on to something else. 

Until, one day, Castiel starts to think. Dean is certainly good at encouraging romantic attention from others. He also tends to give good advice, even if he is terrible at applying that advice to himself. So maybe the way to encourage romantic attention from Dean is to do just as he says: be a gentleman. 

Castiel’s opportunity presents itself the very next day. He’s at a bar with Dean to celebrate the successful conclusion of their most recent hunt, which entailed killing a family of ghouls that had infested a cemetery about an hour’s drive from the bunker. 

Castiel has gone to the bar to pick up the next round. The bartender sidles up and hands him his order — two beers and a matching couple of whiskey shots — with a grin and a wink so exaggerated that Dean surely can’t have failed to pick up on it. 

Sure enough, when Castiel returns to their table, Dean gives him a grin that Castiel thinks shows a few more teeth than usual and says, “Remember what I said, Cas. Be a gentleman. You’ve clearly got a chance with her if you want it.”

Castiel slides into the rickety little chair opposite Dean’s and chooses his next words with care. “Let’s say I wanted to… be a gentleman. How would I do that?” 

It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting of the bar, but Castiel thinks Dean has gone a few shades paler than before. “Um… I dunno, Cas. Just, you know, be polite and shit.” 

Castiel nods thoughtfully as he watches Dean shred the label of his beer bottle. “Can you give me an example?” 

“Um,” says Dean, and the look on his face reminds Castiel of that last ghoul when he realized he was surrounded. “Well, one example would be opening the door for someone I guess.” 

Castiel frowns, finding this less than illuminating. “What if there isn’t a door nearby at the time?” 

“Just… think of something else.” Dean reaches for his whiskey tumbler and downs the shot in a single gulp. “You going after that bartender or can we talk about something else now, Cas?” 

For the next few days, Castiel makes it a point to beat Dean to any door they might happen to be walking towards and hold it open for him. This will usually get him a muttered “thank you,” but not much else. Clearly, it’s time to follow the second part of Dean’s advice and think of something else. 

Googling “how to be a gentleman” seems like the next logical step. 

It’s also a step that results in a truly bewildering amount of information. Apparently, being a gentleman can entail anything from taking regular showers (which Castiel doesn’t need to do) to being polite and approachable with strangers (which Castiel is getting better at, but it’s hardly his favorite thing) to learning how to form something called a tie dimple (a concept that’s starting to make Castiel wonder whether he should just abandon this whole idea). 

Finally, towards the bottom of the second page of results, Castiel finds something that looks promising. It’s an article from something called _The Gentleman’s Journal_ , which informs Castiel that what makes him a gentleman (or not) is how he acts towards the object of his affection. This sounds enough like Dean’s advice that Castiel is inclined to trust it, but it also includes a lot more specific examples. 

The example that especially catches Castiel’s eye is this: “A real gentleman means what he says and says what he means. He finds a tactful way to be open about his thoughts and feelings.” 

The very next day, Dean invites Castiel along on a ride into town to shop for groceries. Opening doors for Dean, however ineffective, has become so much of a habit that as soon as they leave the bunker, Castiel walks a few steps ahead of Dean and opens Baby’s door. 

What he doesn’t expect is the expression of utter bewilderment on Dean’s face. “What the hell’re you doing, Cas?” 

Castiel thinks this seems as good an opportunity as any to try his new approach. “I’ve been trying to follow your advice, Dean.” 

Dean frowns, obviously still confused. “What advice?” 

Castiel is starting to feel a little silly holding Baby’s door open, so he lets go of the handle and steps back. Unfortunately, this leaves him with nothing for his hands to do; a disconcertingly human problem. 

“You told me that if I ever want to...” — don’t do the air quotes, Castiel reminds himself just in time — “… get with someone, I would have to be a gentleman.”

“So…?” 

Castiel shrugs, which is a gesture he’s occasionally practiced in front of a mirror and has definitely gotten better at over the years, if he says so himself. “So I’m holding doors for you. And trying to find…” He pauses to call the exact wording to mind. “… a tactful way to be open about my thoughts and feelings.” 

Castiel has gotten better over the years at reading human expressions, but the one Dean is wearing now is a difficult one. It looks vaguely like the expression he wore when he realized there were about twice as many ghouls in the nest as they had thought, but also like the expression he wears any time he’s about to order pie for dessert. 

Apparently uncomfortable under Castiel’s scrutiny, Dean squirms a little, then says, “Cas, um… are you saying you want to, um… you know, what you said. Um. With me?” 

Taking a deep breath while mentally reminding himself to “say what you mean and mean what you say,” Castiel replies, “I’m asking you to go on a date with me, Dean.” 

“Oh.” Dean looks at Baby. He looks back at the bunker entrance they’ve just walked out of. He looks at his boots. “Yeah, okay.” 

That Friday, when they arrive at that nice little place just outside Lebanon to have dinner, Castiel makes sure to hold the door for Dean. 


	3. Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there's one thing Dean can't stand, it's when people steal his food. Even Cas doesn't get a pass. OK, maybe he does, but he's not exactly playing fair.

“What the fuck, Cas?” 

Dean glares back and forth between his own empty plate and Cas’ right hand, which is currently clutching Dean’s fry, his _last_ fry, for God’s sake. He hopes he looks at least half as appalled as he feels. 

“You don’t even need to eat. Why the hell are you stealing my last fry, Cas?”

Brow furrowed with confusion, Cas retraces the path of Dean's eyes with his own, empty plate to guilty hand. 

“I don’t know. Reflex?”

Cas seems to be guessing, and in Dean’s book, that just isn’t good enough where food theft is concerned. “Reflex. Your reflex is to steal the last bit of food off my plate? The fry I saved for last because it was exactly the perfect mix of still crispy but a little bit soggy from burger juice?” 

Gingerly, like someone diffusing a nuclear device, Cas lowers the fry back onto Dean’s plate. “Sometimes," he says, "I find random objects in my hands or in my pockets and I don’t recognize them and I don’t remember how they got there.” 

Dean tries to digest this information, but it won’t quite go down. Probably doesn't help that he's also trying to digest a pretty sizable lunch. “Wait. So. You just steal stuff sometimes?”

Cas shrugs, still looking at the fry. “I guess.” 

Words failing him for a second, Dean flails both hands vaguely in Cas’ direction. “But. But you’re an angel! Stealing is a sin!” He thinks for a second. “Isn’t it? I’m not that firm on the 10 commandments. You might’ve guessed.”

Cas finally takes his eyes off the fry and grins at Dean instead, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I seem to remember you breaking the third commandment repeatedly last night.” 

“Which one is that?” Dean asks, but he has an idea, and it makes his face heat up just a little bit. 

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain,” Cas mutters around the rim of his coffee mug, which is on its third refill. 

“Oh. Well.” Dean thinks for a second, until the perfect counterargument pops into his brain. He taps his left index finger with his right, counting off. “First of all, that was your fault. I can’t be blamed for breaking commandments left and right if you’re gonna…” He points vaguely in the direction of his own crotch. “Do that.” 

Cas hides his face behind his coffee mug, but Dean could have sworn he heard a chuckle. Undeterred, he keeps counting. “And second of all, you’re trying to distract me. What’s with _you_ breaking commandments?” 

Cas lowers his coffee and, apparently not at all self-conscious at being caught out, keeps distracting Dean. This time, by running one of his feet up the inseam of Dean’s jeans. It's working pretty well. 

Nevertheless, Cas finally gets around to answering the question. “Just the one commandment. And I don’t know. I think it started when I was human. One of the first things I did then was steal somebody else’s clothes at a laundromat.”

Dean nods, trying to keep his mind on the conversation rather than on the socked foot traveling up and down his leg. When did Cas even take off his shoes? 

“I thought maybe it was alright because I needed to blend in and my suit and coat were covered in blood,” Cas says, thoughtfully poking Dean’s knee with his big toe. “I didn’t have a lot of money on me, so buying clothes didn’t seem like a viable option.” 

Well, talk about a mood killer. Suddenly, Dean finds it all too easy to get his mind back out of the gutter. Cas seems to feel the same, because he withdraws his foot and leans forward, hunching around his coffee mug and cupping it with both hands. 

“It wasn’t the last time I needed something and didn’t have money to pay for it,” he goes on. “I didn’t have the same needs when I became an angel again, but I must have never lost the habit of taking other people’s things.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly, taking a sip of his own coffee (still on the first refill, by the way). “I get that. I used to have to steal stuff all the time as a kid. Dad wouldn’t always leave me and Sam enough money to get by when he took off.”

Cas disentangles one of his hands from around the mug and instead tangles it with Dean’s hand where it's resting on the other end of the tabletop. “Do you still do it sometimes?” 

Dean looks up, surprised. “No. Never. I’m still proud every time I can go to the store and actually have my own money to pay for stuff.” He shifts a bit on his chair, embarrassed. “Well, you know what I mean. The money I hustled anyway.” 

“Still yours,” Cas says, giving Dean the crooked smile that always makes something unclench inside him. “But you’re lying to me. Which, by the way, breaks yet another commandment.” 

Dean frowns up at Cas from where he’s been studying their entwined hands on the table and idly running his thumb across Cas’ knuckles. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“I know for a fact you’ve stolen something since I’ve known you.” 

Dean wracks his brain, which turns out to be tricky because he has more than a decade’s worth of memories to sift through. “I got nothing. What are you talking about?” 

Cas looks extremely pleased with himself. “My heart.” 

Dean opens and closes his mouth at least three times, too appalled to speak.

Finally, he recovers enough to say, “You’re fucking sappy, you know that?”

Cas just grins and gives Dean’s hand a little squeeze, waiting him out. 

Finally, Dean grunts and pushes his plate toward Cas. “Eat the damn fry.” 

Cas’ grin widens. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your last, perfect fry, Dean.” 

Dean chooses not to dignify that bit of sass with an answer. Instead, he gives the plate another nudge. Then, looking around to make sure no one's watching, he raises Cas’ hand to his mouth and puts a little kiss on top of the first knuckle. 

Blushing a little, Cas reaches out and eats the fry.


	4. Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas proposes a bet to make the next supply run more interesting. Dean stupidly agrees, and nothing will ever be the same.

Even constant life-or-death jeopardy gets old after a while. Which is how the bet started. 

It was Cas who suggested it, and Dean mostly took him up on it because he couldn’t remember the last time Cas had taken the initiative on anything other than fucking around, smoking weed and making their stash of painkillers slowly disappear from the supply hut. 

Dean knows he's not in a position to judge. He spends most evenings curled around a bottle of whiskey, sometimes with a random hookup but mostly alone. He hasn't figured out what happens when the whiskey stash runs out. He tries not to think about it. 

Anyway, a couple of nights ago, Cas actually came over to visit for once. He said he wanted to go over the logistics for their next supply run, but Dean knew he was just trying to make sure he'd be the one assigned to scoping out the pharmacy in town. He got his wish, because Dean never learned how to say no to Cas and, again, it's not like his own coping mechanisms are exactly healthy.

When Cas got up to leave a minute later, Dean wracked his brain to find a reason to ask him to stay, and for a minute there, it seemed like Cas was waiting to be asked, because he was just kind of awkwardly hovering in the doorway. 

Finally, Cas said, "How about we make that supply run a little more interesting?" 

Dean squinted up at him, his vision already a little out of focus that night. "Interesting how?" 

"We stay together and keep count of our kills. Whoever kills more croats gets the other's allotment of toilet paper for the next month." 

Toilet paper being basically the only currency these days, it was a pretty steep wager. 

"So, like a bet?" 

Cas did a loose half-nod-half-shrug, but there was a vague challenge in his glassy eyes, and Dean took a second to mourn the intense, dorky angel he used to know. The one who didn’t smell of weed. The one who might have had a stick up his ass, but wasn’t in danger of choking on his own vomit on a semi-regular basis. 

Long story short, they shook on it, which is how Dean now finds himself with a Sharpie in his hand, drawing another black line on Cas’ forearm. It’s the seventh line, compared to Dean’s current total of five. Cas flashes him a cocky smile. 

"Looks like _I'll_ get to be the one giving you a sore ass this time." 

Dean waits him out. 

“Because of the…” 

“The toilet paper. Yeah, Cas, I got it.” 

Because sure, Cas is still awkward enough that he feels the need to explain his jokes, but he does innuendo now. Worse than that, he does it well. Dean's not proud of this, but between the two of them, they've basically fucked their way through the entire camp. So Cas has earned his stripes on the innuendo thing, and Dean had it coming. 

But that's just the thing. Innuendo is all it is. Because the one person who is totally off limits at the end of the world is Cas, and Cas seems to feel the same way about Dean. The people they are now don't exactly have it in them to build a loving, caring relationship, but it seems wrong to settle for anything less with each other. Dean doesn't mind getting his rocks off with Risa or Jeff, but not Cas. Never Cas. 

On that thought, Dean realizes he’s still holding on to Cas’ arm. He pulls away and turns, capping the Sharpie. 

And that’s when he sees it. 

A lone croat, shuffling towards an alley almost two blocks away. Dean looks around for backup, but the rest of their group seems to have decided to move on. Risa in particular had seemed pretty tired of what she’d heavily implied was a dick-measuring contest. Well, not so much “heavily implied” as “called it that outright.” 

Dean looks after the croat, which has now reached the alley and is heading out of sight. If it’s not coming at them, then it clearly hasn’t seen them. There’s no need to go after it. But Dean’s got a bet to win. 

“Watch this and weep,” he says, turning on his heel and stalking after the croat. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Cas is following after, covering Dean’s six. 

They don’t speak as they close in on the alley, staying pressed close to walls and doorways. The sidewalk is a minefield of discarded plastic wrappers and broken glass; all waiting to be stepped on and give away their position. 

Dean reaches the alley first, and when he rounds the corner of the entrance, the croat is at the other end, a little over 30 yards away. A bulky, overweight man, probably in his 40s, Dean thinks. There’s another croat shuffling nearby, a woman, mid-20s, unkempt brown hair smeared with blood. 

Before Cas can line up a shot and expand on his lead, Dean raises the muzzle of his MP5 semi-automatic and pulls the trigger. 

Nothing happens. Shit. 

Jams like this are exactly why they carry sidearms too, but Dean wastes precious seconds fumbling the MP5’s strap out of his way, trying to get at the .45 H&K where it’s tucked into his shoulder holster. 

The croats have noticed them now, of course, and they’re charging. Cas has his eye on them, but before he can get off his shot, a pair of scrabbling, pale, frantic hands reaches for his throat and drags him into a hidden doorway. Apparently, Dean completely overlooked that opening when he walked into the alley; too focused on the damn bet to keep his head in the game. 

“Cas!” he yells, pointlessly, and that’s when he finally gets his hands on the .45, the croats already halfway down the alley when they fall. The noise is going to attract more of them, and he’s a weapon down. From now on, he’s living on borrowed time. What’s worse, so is Cas. 

Cursing himself for agreeing to this stupid bet in the first place, Dean stalks through the doorway, throwing caution to the wind. 

“Cas!” 

“Dean!” Cas’ voice sounds strained, breathless, but it’s also close. Frantically, Dean scans his surroundings, panic clogging his brain. He’s in the hallway of some kind of office building, but there’s so, so many doorways leading off it, way too many, and if Cas hasn’t shot the fucker yet, that means he can’t get to his gun, and that means Dean will never get to him in time. 

By some miracle, Dean finds Cas in a room halfway down the hall. He’s on the floor, blood running down his temple, arms working frantically to push off the croat that’s right on top of him, snapping, crowding. He’s losing the fight; the croat has at least 50 pounds on him. 

Acting on reflex, Dean pulls the trigger of his .45, aiming for the chest. If he goes for a headshot, there’s too great a chance of blood splatter ending up in Cas’ mouth. 

The impact forces the croat off Cas, but doesn’t take it out. With a snarl, it’s back on its feet, charging. 

Cas is faster. His shot hits the croat square in the forehead, sending it sprawling against the far wall. Then, Cas crumples, knees hitting the floor with a painful thud. 

Dean’s with him in two strides, wrapping one of Cas’ arms around his shoulders to pull him up. Their cheeks touch as Cas leans against him. 

“You alright?” 

“I think so,” Cas says, but he sounds dazed. “Hit my head. Got up too quickly I think.” 

Dean pulls Cas back out of the building, and up the alley. They don’t encounter a single croat on the way back to the car, and it feels like an unexpected moment of grace. Dean knows there isn’t a higher power looking out for them, but at times like these, he lets himself believe that maybe he’s wrong. 

He bundles Cas into the passenger seat of his Jeep. None of the rest of their group is back yet, but Dean starts the engine and pulls away, tires screeching, not wanting to push their luck by sticking around any longer than necessary. 

For a while, they don’t say anything. But with each passing minute, the words are pushing harder up Dean’s throat and he needs to get them out. 

“Stupid fucking bet,” he murmurs. “Never should’ve agreed to it. Fucking reckless. Almost got you killed.” 

Cas looks over at him, silent, sizing him up. 

Irritation rising inside him, Dean barks, “ _What?_ ” 

“What if we don’t go back?” Cas says, so quietly Dean almost doesn’t hear him.

When Dean doesn’t react, Cas adds, “Back to camp, I mean.” 

Dean takes his eyes off the road for a second to read Cas’ expression. He looks deadly serious. 

“What, you want to go for a scenic drive?” 

“Doesn’t need to be scenic. Let’s just drive.” 

There’s a feeling clawing at Dean’s insides, trying to make itself known. Fear, maybe, but also something vaguely like excitement. Like the muscle memory of years on the open road kicking back in. 

“What happens when we run out of gas?” he finds himself asking, like he’s actually considering this hare-brained scheme. 

“We walk,” Cas says. He makes it sound like the most obvious thing in the world. 

Dean considers it. They could go back to camp. It’d be the smart thing to do. The camp has weapons. Provisions. And, let’s not forget, toilet paper. At the very least, he needs to make sure Cas has thought this through. 

“Cas, if we do that, we die. You know that, right? Sooner or later, a croat sneaks up on us while we’re asleep. Or we run out of ammo.” 

Cas shrugs. “I know.” 

And then he does a very surprising thing. He lifts his hand to Dean’s face and runs a thumb across his cheek. “We might last longer in camp, or we might not. It doesn’t matter, because I’d rather have three more days with you than three more years pretending I’m not losing my mind. So will you do this with me?” 

Dean swallows hard, then nods. Cas’ hand moves off his face, but settles on his thigh, squeezing gently. 

Dean steps on the gas, heading for the open road.


	5. Motel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years ago, Cas disappeared at a motel in a sleepy bayside town. Dean can't help going back in search of answers.

It’s May 4 again, and Dean is back. Back at the motel. 

The Bayside Motel in Oxford, Maryland, is an unremarkable place on the face of it. Two floors, connected by an outdoor staircase and wrapped around a parking lot. Just another roadside inn. There are tens, maybe hundreds of thousands like it all across America. 

Yet it’s also a place unlike any other. Because this is where, 10 years ago today, Cas disappeared. 

When Dean got wind of the hunt back then, Sam was off somewhere on his own. Dean can barely remember anymore, but he thinks it had something to do with cataloguing the library at another Men of Letters bunker they’d recently discovered. 

There were clear omens of witchcraft in a sleepy, picturesque town by the Chesapeake Bay. Had Dean known what he knows now, he never would have asked Cas to come along. But he did; tempted by the idea of driving across the country together, just the two of them, and spending a couple of days in a seaside town. The kind of place couples might go to enjoy each other’s company. 

Of course, they hadn’t been a couple. Not then. They made the drive, Cas tapping his fingers in time to the beat of Dean’s Zepp tapes, Dean singing along. Out of tune, just to make Cas laugh.

When they found the witch, she fought hard. Dean leveled his gun at her, loaded with witch-killing bullets of course, but he couldn’t get a clean shot. Cas was in the way, trying to keep the witch from charging at Dean. 

Then it happened. A flash of blue light, and Cas was thrown against the far wall. Dean pulled the trigger, his bullet landing straight in the center of the witch’s forehead. 

After checking to make sure the witch was really dead, Dean scrambled over to where Cas still hadn’t moved. Panic climbing up his throat, Dean cupped Cas’ face in his palms and called his name. The longest 30 seconds of Dean’s life passed. Then, Cas drew in a sharp breath and woke up. 

And Dean just couldn’t hold it in anymore. His hands already framing Cas’ face, he closed the rest of the distance and touched their lips together; softly, carefully. After barely a moment’s hesitation, Cas returned the kiss, muttering endearments as his fingers ran gently over the nape of Dean’s neck. 

They went back to the motel, slipping into the same bed by silent agreement, holding each other and whispering in the darkness of the room. 

The next morning, Dean woke to the sensation of soft, dry lips kissing his forehead, and he smiled. After a while, he walked into the bathroom to take a shower, throwing a smile at Cas as he turned to close the door, and getting one in return. 

When he came back, the room was empty. 

At first, Dean figured maybe Cas was out for a walk in the cool, salt water-scented morning air. His phone was still on the nightstand, so it seemed unlikely he’d be gone for long. 

When the minutes turned into hours, Dean started to think maybe Cas regretted the night before. Maybe Dean had done something to drive him away. 

But then he remembered the way Cas had smiled at him, that last time. Like a promise. 

Over the next few days, Dean walked all over the sleepy little town of Oxford. He asked everyone he met if maybe they’d seen a man with blue eyes, in a suit and trench coat. They never had. 

Next, he started knocking on doors, but after 72 hours with no sleep and no razor, he couldn’t blame people for pretending they weren’t home. 

He called Sam, who called Rowena, who did every locator spell in the book. Cas was still gone. 

After two weeks, Sam came to Oxford and made Dean get in the car with him. They drove back to the bunker. Every additional mile stretching between Dean and the town where Cas disappeared felt like the twist of a knife. 

Dean spent the following months reading a lot of lore books and sleeping very little. He prayed to Cas at least once every day. There was never an answer.

Then, April turned to May again for the first time, and Dean knew he had to go back. Magic was all about symbolism, he knew, and maybe, just maybe, if he could be in the right place on the same day, a year later… 

So he wrote a note for Sam, telling him some vague excuse about going on a hunt, and drove back to the Bayside Motel. He made sure to reserve Room 15, _their_ room, before he left Kansas. 

He arrived a couple of days early and stayed for a week. Cas never showed.

Still, Dean came back year after year. Some years, he told himself this would be the last time. That he was getting too old and too tired to do this to himself anymore. And still, he went. 

In year three, the night Dean came back to the bunker after his trip to Oxford, he got so drunk that he actually told Sam where he’d been going and what had happened between him and Cas, that last night together. Sam sat down next to Dean, on the floor of the kitchen, sharing a bottle of whiskey with Dean and letting him cry. 

So now it’s been 10 years, and Dean has long ago given up on the notion that he’ll ever stop coming to Oxford on May 4. He had his 50th birthday a year ago; there’s no moving on from this, from Cas, for him anymore. 

The sun has been up for a couple of hours on this particular May 4, but Dean’s still lying in one of the two queen beds of Room 15. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Cas next to him, arms holding him tight, breath tickling against his ear. 

“Cas,” he whispers. “Hey, man. I came back. Every time you think you’re rid of me, I show up again.” He chuckles weakly. “Like a bad penny.” 

“I’ve never understood this human habit of ascribing moral traits to inanimate objects,” Cas says. 

Dean pulls in a sharp breath. 

When he opens his eyes, an angel in a trench coat is standing in the far corner of the room, watching him. 

“Cas?” It’s a croak, barely audible, but Cas freezes. 

“Dean?” Cas’ eyes widen. “You heard me?” 

Dean can’t get his voice to work anymore, but he nods. 

Cas takes a step forward, then another. “And… you can see me?” 

“I can see you,” Dean echoes. “You’re… you’re really here?” 

Cas’ eyes are wet, every line of his face tight with emotion. “I’ve been here this whole time. Here, in this room. I wanted to let you know, but I could never reach you. Those first few weeks, and every time you came back, I screamed myself hoarse trying to make you listen, but…” He raises his hands, fingers spread in a gesture of helplessness, and Dean just has to be sure this is real. In three strides, he’s across the room, and his arms wrap around Cas. Warm, solid Cas.

“Why?” he mutters into the soft fabric of Cas’ coat, holding on tight. 

“It must have been the witch’s spell,” Cas says, burying his face in the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder. “Not all curses die with the person who casts them.” 

Dean looks up to let his eyes roam over Cas’ face, but doesn’t let go of him. He isn’t sure he could if he tried. “How come it broke?” 

Cas smiles sadly, running the pad of his thumb along Dean’s cheek. “Perhaps the curse was only ever intended to last for 10 years.” 

“Kind of like Sleeping Beauty,” Dean says quietly, touching his forehead to Cas’. 

A smile creeps across Cas’ face when he says, “Except 90 years shorter. And without any sleeping.” 

Dean pulls Cas close again, wanting every part of their bodies to touch. “You know I would’ve kept coming back here every year, right? For as long as it took?” 

“I know,” Cas says simply, and touches their lips together. 

Two hours later, they get in the car and drive away from the Bayside Motel in Oxford, Maryland. 

They never go back.


	6. Jealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack has a girlfriend now, and he needs relationship advice. Dean and Cas try to help. This does not go well.

Jack storms into the bunker’s kitchen like a fucking thundercloud.

Dean looks up from where he was passing Cas a fresh cup of coffee across the counter, eyes tracking Jack’s angry stomping all the way from the doorframe to one of the bench seats, where he plops himself down. For extra melodrama, he drops his forehead onto the table with a pretty alarming thunk.

“You alright there, kid?”

Head still firmly planted on the tabletop, Jack mumbles, “I don’t think I understand women at all.”

Cas and Dean exchange a glance that’s equal parts knowing, resigned and maybe just a little bit freaked out. Because ever since Jack killed Chuck, he’s been human, and he’s been acting it more and more. Which means that now, of all things, he has a girlfriend. And he seems to be in need of advice about relationships. With women.

Basically, Dean thinks Jack couldn’t have found two less qualified people to talk to if he’d tried.

“Sam!” Dean yells, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. Sam is the straight one in this family. He can deal with this. A slight head shake from Cas reminds him that, oh yeah, Sam is out on a hunt and isn’t going to be back until tomorrow. So much for that.

Thankfully, Cas looks like he’s willing to at least try handling this. Turning his back on the counter to face Jack, he says, cautiously, “Jack… would you like to tell us what happened?”

Apparently, that’s exactly what Jack’s been waiting to be asked, because he perks up immediately. “Jenna and I went to see a movie together. I went to buy us some popcorn and the girl who was selling it seemed bored, so we talked for a little while.” Jack cocks his head and frowns in an eerie imitation of Cas. “She seemed very interested in me. I think maybe she was flirting with me?”

Dean can see where this is going. Which still won’t help him give advice, but hey, at least he feels like he has the pertinent information a normal, functioning person would need to theoretically give advice.

“When I had the popcorn and found Jenna, she seemed upset. She asked me if I thought the popcorn girl was pretty. I did, so I said yes.”

Dean can’t help the pained hiss that escapes through his teeth. “Kid, you should have lied.”

“Even I know that,” Cas mumbles into his coffee cup.

Jack, on the other hand, seems thoroughly confused. “I know we have to lie on hunts sometimes. But that’s so we don’t get arrested.”

Dean grabs his coffee and takes a seat on the bench across the table from Jack’s, ready to dispense what little wisdom he’s gained over his 41 years of life.

“Here’s the thing, Jack. When you’re dating someone and you see someone else you think is attractive, you never, ever say so.”

Jack is all frown when he asks, “Why?”

Dean takes a gulp of his coffee while he thinks this over. “Because if you do, they’ll get jealous.”

“Jealous.” Jack says the word like he’s trying it on for size, clearly not getting it.

“Yeah,” Dean says, picking up steam now. “You know, they’ll think maybe you like that other person better. Maybe you’d rather be with them. Maybe they’d be more fun or more attractive.”

He knows he’s put a foot wrong when Cas does that little growling thing he does that’s really fucking sexy in the bedroom but very ominous in every other room.

“Cas? Something wrong?” Dean asks, trying for and missing casual by a mile.

“Oh, nothing,” Cas says, sounding all airy and, yeah, somehow Dean got himself into trouble. “I’m just gaining a new perspective on the excessively long conversation you had with the bartender last week, when we were in Missouri for that vampire hunt. You said you didn’t think he was attractive, but…”

Dean defaults to defensiveness, because it’s what he does. “OK, while we’re talking about that, how about that time we were hunting a wraith in Indiana and you fucking threw yourself at the coroner?” In what anyone would have to admit is an amazing imitation of Cas’ gravelly voice, Dean adds, “Oh, thank you so much, _Mindy_. You’ve been a great help. Please make sure to give me a call if you think of anything else.”

Cas’ glare is about two seconds from full-on smiting levels. “And how exactly is that ‘throwing myself’ at her?” Cas doesn’t usually do air quotes anymore, but he does when he loses his shit, which apparently he’s doing now. “Because as far as I’m concerned, the definition of ‘throwing yourself at someone’ is when you wink at them so much it looks like you’re having a seizure.”

Dean levers himself up from his bench so he can glare at Cas face to face, arms crossed in front of him for emphasis. “Anything you’re trying to say, Cas?”

Cas scoffs and crosses his own arms, matching Dean glare for glare. “Do the words ‘Kansas City’ and ‘Ian’ mean anything to you?”

Dean is just about to come back with an extremely excellent, snappy retort. Which is when Jack clears his throat.

Dean flinches because, yeah, maybe he kind of forgot the kid was even here. Cas’ glare immediately downgrades to an embarrassed grimace.

“Well,” Jack says, looking politely puzzled. “Thank you? For your advice? But I think I’ll just call Jenna and talk this over with her.”

That decision apparently made, Jack gets up and pads out of the kitchen.

Dean glances at Cas, who looks just as wrong-footed as Dean feels.

Finally, Cas says, “Well, that seems like the advice we should have given him all along.”

Dean nods thoughtfully at his coffee mug. The one with the naked cupids on it. Deciding that this fight is probably over, he strolls back to the counter and puts his arm around Cas, planting a kiss on the side of his head. “I’m pretty lucky you put up with my emotionally stunted ass.”

“Yes, you are,” Cas says, and his grin is way too smug for its own good, but Dean can’t resist kissing it anyway.

“Now do the dishes,” Cas adds for good measure as he follows Jack out of the kitchen.

And Dean does. Because that coroner was pretty, but she probably leaves dirty dishes in the sink.


	7. Thunderstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are probably a lot of reasons why you shouldn't try to summon demons. In this case, because you might be like Dean Winchester and find yourself with an annoyed, sarcastic angel on your hands instead.

It’s after dark barely a week before Halloween, there’s a howling thunderstorm outside, and the smell of weed is thick in the air. Really, Dean figures, it was only a matter of time until someone floated the idea.

“Guys, we should totally summon a demon!”

A particularly loud roll of thunder follows right on the heels of Garth’s suggestion, like they’ve all somehow gone to sleep and woken up in a horror-movie cliché.

Dean gets up from his desk with a sigh and shuffles to the door of his room. With a pointed glare at Garth, Benny and Vic, he closes the door, trying to get back to studying. Most of the time, he doesn’t mind living on campus, especially since he became a junior and got to move to a suite where he has his own space. As opposed to last year, when he was always digging through Benny’s smelly laundry to find his textbooks.

He also doesn’t mind his suite mates, generally speaking. But it’s times like these when he really feels the five years he has on everybody else here. At 25, he should have graduated long ago, but he didn’t even get his GED until he was 21, and money’s always been tight back home, so here he is. 

Highlighter poised, Dean tries to get back to the chapter he’s been trying to read for the past hour. When something suspiciously like chanting starts up from the next room, he walks over to his vintage tape player and puts on some Zepp, trying to drown out the noise.

He sort of remembers Garth mentioning that his family is part of some splintery religious sect, and they have all kinds of weird books that Garth sometimes swipes and brings to school. Whatever the hell the guys are doing right now probably has something to do with that.

Dean thought the thunderstorm was moving away, but apparently he was wrong, because the next roll of thunder feels like it might split his eardrums.

A second later, he could swear he sees lightning flash through the gap under his door. In the next room, but not outside his window. That can’t be right. Anyway, thunder is supposed to come _after_ lightning.

The bulb in Dean’s desk lamp chooses that moment to shatter, scattering broken glass all over his laptop.

“Shit!” Dean looks down to find a small, but particularly jagged piece of glass embedded in his left hand.

With a hiss, he pulls out the shard, then immediately regrets it when a sluggish but steady drip of blood starts to hit the floor. Just great.

He grabs a towel from his closet, noticing all of a sudden that the rest of the suite is suspiciously quiet. No giggles. Not even any chanting.

With a vague sense of foreboding, he steps out of his room. There’s an actual pentagram or something drawn on the floor, each corner marked by a lit candle.

At the center of the pentagram stands what Dean can only assume is the world’s least intimidating demon.

Basically, he just looks like a guy. An attractive guy, sure, in his early or mid-30s maybe, with just the right amount of stubble, a sharply cut jaw and messy dark hair. But not a particularly scary one. His wrinkly blue suit and boxy trench coat make him look, mostly, like a down-on-his-luck tax accountant.

“Um,” Dean says, eloquently. The guy pivots to face him and wow, those are some seriously blue eyes.

“I was looking for my friends,” is the next thing that comes out of Dean’s mouth.

“I sent them away,” the guy says, and his voice is deep enough that maybe it’s not such a stretch to think he’s a demon after all? “I was annoyed with them.”

“You were…” Dean tries to pick one of the roughly two dozen questions swirling through his head. “Why were you annoyed with them?”

“They summoned me,” the maybe-a-demon says. “I was on a very important mission and did not appreciate being forced to come here instead.”

“So, uh.” Think, Winchester. Where would a rational conversation go next? “So, where are they now?”

Demon guy points vaguely off to his right. “Don’t worry. They’re fine. I only sent them about five miles away, to a Dunkin Donuts.”

“A Dunkin Donuts.” That seems weirdly specific.

The guy shrugs, shoulders taking that ridiculous coat along for the ride. “I like their coffee.”

Another part of Dean’s brain decides to come back online, and he finally thinks to ask the question that is really at the heart of the matter here. “Mind telling me who you are?”

A gust of wind lifts the guy’s hair and billows his trench coat, lightning crackling and swirling around him.

“I am the storm,” he announces, voice echoing with ancient power and, OK, maybe he’s a little intimidating after all.

The light bulb above Dean’s head shatters, scattering broken glass all over the floor.

“Dude, you have got to stop doing that!”

“Sorry,” the guy says, and weirdly enough, he actually looks it. “I’ve been told I can be a bit dramatic.”

With a flick of his wrist, the broken glass disappears.

“To answer your question properly,” he says, “my name is Castiel. I’m an Angel of the Lord.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Dean looks the guy up and down, and if his eyes linger in a couple of strategic places, well, nobody needs to know. “Shouldn’t an angel be, I don’t know, taller?”

Castiel squints at him, looking annoyed. “This is a vessel. My true form is roughly the size of your Chrysler building. And might I point out that you’re being extremely rude?”

“ _I’m_ being rude?”

“Yes.” Castiel strides out of the pentagram like it’s nothing and flops onto the couch, arms crossed like some kind of pouty teenager. “I believe it’s customary that when someone introduces himself, you should offer your name in return.”

“OK, sure.” Dean slumps against his doorframe. This conversation is really taking it out of him for some reason. “Let’s pretend for a moment that you haven’t trashed my home and abducted my friends. I’m Dean.”

He feels a weird compulsion to walk over to the couch and shake Castiel’s hand, but then remembers that one of his hands is still bleeding onto the carpet.

Castiel frowns at him. “You’re injured. I can fix that.”

Before Dean can so much as bat an eyelash, Castiel has zapped across the room and is putting two fingers on Dean’s hand. A pleasant warmth tingles briefly at the point where they’re touching, and just like that, the cut is gone.

Dean’s eyes widen as he looks up at Castiel. “You’re an angel.”

Castiel frowns, head tilted in confusion. “I thought we’d established that.”

“You know what?” Dean shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Sit.” He flails a hand at the couch. “I need a drink.”

He walks back into his room and automatically fills two tumblers with several fingers of whiskey. Castiel has slumped back down on the saggy two-seater, and it suddenly occurs to Dean that he might have missed a step. “Um. Do angels drink? Booze, I mean? Or, I guess, anything, generally?”

Castiel shrugs and takes the tumbler from Dean’s hand. “We don’t have to, but it’s not actively discouraged.”

Interested now, Dean asks, “Can you get drunk?”

As Dean lowers himself onto the couch cushion next to Castiel’s, he watches the angel down his shot of whiskey in a single gulp. “Yes, but it would take a lot more than this.”

Dean takes a sip from his drink and a minute to think. It’s not often you get a chance to question a genuine angel. “I thought drinking was a sin or something.”

Castiel shrugs. “Not in and of itself. Excessive indulgence in spirits is a different matter, of course.”

Dean shifts himself on the couch, drawing up one of his legs so he can face Castiel. “What about other stuff? Can you lie?”

“It’s frowned upon,” Castiel says. “Which is why I should probably tell you that I lied to you earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. Instead of elaborating, he starts waving his empty glass at Dean.

“Can’t you just mojo it full of whiskey again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s an important angel secret.”

Dean glares at Castiel. “Is that another lie?”

“Maybe,” Castiel says, but he once again gestures emphatically between Dean and Dean's room and the empty glass.

With a sigh, Dean levers himself off the couch and fetches them both another drink.

When he sits back down, he finds that Castiel has mirrored his position from earlier, so that they’re looking straight at each other now. That blue-eyed stare is pretty disconcerting head-on.

To distract himself, Dean asks, “So are you going to tell me what you lied about earlier?”

Castiel pretends to be very focused on the contents of his glass when he says, “I said I was on an important mission when your friends summoned me. The truth is, I had nothing to do and I was bored. That’s why I came.”

“Huh.”

They’re both quiet for a while, taking sips of their drinks.

“So,” Dean says, once he’s finished his and fetched them both another round, “you can drink booze and you can lie. Any other human stuff you can do?”

Castiel sets down his glass on the nearby coffee table and takes hold of one of the fingers of his left hand, counting off. “We can eat, but I don’t like to because I can’t really taste the food anyway. We can have sex when we’re in a vessel, though I’ve personally never tried it. Oh, and we can swear, but not on Sundays.”

Dean almost chokes on his drink. “Wait, what? Hold your horses. You can have sex, but you’ve never done it? Ever?”

“Never,” Castiel agrees solemnly.

Dean doesn’t want to hurt Castiel’s feelings, if those are a thing he has, but he has to know. “Dude, how old are you?”

“About three minutes older than the Earth itself,” Castiel replies, taking another sip of his whiskey and swishing it around his mouth experimentally.

“Have you…” Dean takes another sip for courage. “Have you ever wanted to? Have sex?”

“Sometimes,” Castiel shrugs. “There is the question of the vessel’s consent. Of course, poor Jimmy here…” He points vaguely at his own chest. “… has already departed this life.”

Dean _does_ choke on his drink that time. “You’re wearing a dead guy?”

“It’s preferable to a living vessel, in some ways,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “I don’t know this first-hand, of course, but I don’t believe angelic possession would be a pleasant experience, exactly.”

Dean is still stuck on the dead-guy thing, so he’s quiet for a minute, trying to consider whether it’s a deal breaker for the plan that’s sort of, maybe, been kicking around his head for the past 10 minutes. Overall, he doesn’t think so, but he does wonder what that says about him.

After a brief silence, he goes to fetch them both another couple of drinks. “What about sex with guys?” he asks when he sits down again. “Are you allowed to do that?”

Castiel shrugs. “I am indifferent to gender and sexual orientation.”

“Good.” Dean nods slowly. “That’s good.”

That blue X-ray stare is even more focused on him than before, looking him up and down. “Are you offering yourself as a sexual partner?”

Dean almost drops his tumbler. “Holy shit, Cas. Um, I mean, sorry. Holy crap. Is that better?”

Castiel just keeps staring at him, squinty-eyed, waiting him out.

Feeling a blush creep up his face at the scrutiny, Dean stares determinedly at the Grateful Dead concert poster that’s hanging on the opposite wall. When it provides no answers to life’s questions, he allows, “Yeah. Sure. Maybe. If that… I mean, if that’s a thing you’d be interested in.”

He chances a glance back at Castiel, who is still squinting, but looking more curious than confused now. Finally, Castiel nods, seemingly making up his mind about something.

“I think it’s a good idea. Your friends will be gone for another hour and 30 minutes, by my estimate. That should be enough time.”

Exactly one hour and 30 minutes later, Garth, Benny and Vic come staggering down the street to their dorm building, wondering vaguely why all the streetlights are broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An [AU fic based on this story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363568/chapters/58756408) is now posting!


	8. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is an angel and a soldier. Emotions are not meant for him. They are for humans; perhaps for God and the archangels. This is what Castiel believes, until he meets the Michael Sword.

When Castiel is created, he receives two directives: “Obey the Host’s orders. Protect the Word of God.”

Beyond this, the only thing Castiel recalls of his early days is a vague warning: beware of emotion. Emotion, in a soldier, is weakness.

Castiel soon discovers that he is weak.

The first emotion he ever feels is disgust. It happens in the streets of an Egyptian town, as he looks down at his vessel’s hands. They are spattered with the blood of the town’s firstborns.

His second emotion, shame, follows swiftly after. He feels it on his own behalf, but also on behalf of his brothers and sisters. He tells them so.

After that, Castiel is taken away. He feels nothing but a strange blankness for a very long time.

Over the centuries, Castiel learns that he enjoys traveling the earth to observe humans. He studies their emotions — love, hatred, boredom, joy — and how different kinds of people tend to express them.

Every time he finds a new emotion and catalogues it, he is careful not to share his observations with anyone.

And yet, all this time, he feels a question forming in his mind. The question grows, scratching at him until he’s too distracted to think of anything else.

Eventually, he seeks out his older brother, Gabriel. Gabriel has always been more understanding of Castiel’s strange interests than the rest of the Host.

“Gabriel,” Castiel asks. “There is something I don’t understand about humans.”

Gabriel nods, encouraging him to continue.

“There is so much suffering for them to endure in their short lifetimes. Loss, grief, poverty, hunger. And yet so few of them ever seem to give up their struggle before their time. Why is that?”

“It’s hope, little brother,” Gabriel says with a smile.

Castiel cocks his head, considering. “I don’t remember seeing this emotion before. How will I recognize it?”

“Hope is a hard thing to pin down, Castiel. You have to feel it yourself to truly understand, I think.”

“Have you? Felt it?”

Gabriel’s voice is heavy with remembrance. “Yes, once. The best way to describe it is… a light. Not the kind of light that means an absence of darkness, but the kind that lets you face darkness and keep it from overpowering you.”

Not long after his conversation with Gabriel, Castiel is appointed commander of a garrison. It is a tremendous honor, and he has little time now to walk about the earth, watching humans and their confusing emotions.

He does well with his assignment, and soon his garrison is given the most important mission of all: to secure the Righteous Man. The Michael Sword.

There is only one problem: the Michael Sword is currently in Hell.

Castiel takes a dozen of his best soldiers when he descends into the underworld. Hell is a big place, and though an angel’s power exceeds a demon’s, the fight claims its victims. In fact, it claims everyone but Castiel.

When Castiel finds the Michael Sword, after months of searching, he is surprised to find that his first emotion in centuries is awe. He knew the Sword’s soul would have to be beautiful to be chosen as the vessel for God’s mightiest son. But this soul shines more brightly in Castiel’s eyes than any he has ever observed before.

He does feel grief for his fallen brothers, then. But he also feels glad to have been chosen to save the Michael Sword and rebuild his body so he might live again.

Castiel soon ceases to think of this man as the Michael Sword. If one thing is abundantly clear, it is that Dean Winchester is no empty husk, simply waiting to be filled with God’s glory.

From the very beginning of their acquaintance, in fact, Castiel finds Dean and his emotions to be a fascinating puzzle. Dean’s emotions seem to be unusually acute — even cloaked, as the more tender of them are, under layers of anger and hurt.

In trying to study Dean’s emotions, however, Castiel learns something altogether different; something thrilling and forbidden. He, an angel, is _allowed_ to feel emotions himself and base his choices on them. He does not need to be bound by the orders of the Host if those orders seem unjust or immoral.

And so, Castiel disobeys his first directive.

Over the next 10 years, Castiel feels more human emotions than he ever thought possible. There are times when he feels two or three different ones at the same time; occasionally, his various emotions even seem to contradict each other.

Almost inevitably, Dean Winchester is the cause of these emotions.

It takes Castiel years to recognize the most significant of these bewildering new emotions. He has observed this emotion in others. But seeing it and feeling it, it turns out, are two entirely different things.

The emotion is love.

Castiel recognizes it as such on a perfectly ordinary day. He is at a diner with Dean, celebrating a successful hunt, and Dean’s shoulders are unbowed for once. His face looks almost carefree. When he catches Castiel watching him, Dean smiles, and Castiel loves him.

But Castiel knows there is no room in their lives for love. There is always another fight; another reason to despair. How can there be hope for love in a life that hurtles them from crisis to crisis?

One day, they discover that every single one of these crises has been manufactured. Written by Castiel’s Father himself, for his own amusement.

And so, Castiel disobeys his second directive.

He does it so effectively that by the end, God himself is gone from the world, taking his accursed Word with him.

Castiel stands next to Dean as they look out over the new world they’ve created. One where the Host commands no one, and the Word of God is a mere memory.

He turns his head, and Dean’s eyes meet his.

Castiel feels a strange stirring in his chest; a warmth and lightness that invites him to float, lost in this moment, for the rest of eternity.

“Dean, I-” he begins, knowing what he wants to say, and feeling terror at the thought.

Dean smiles; a thing of genuine joy. “I know, Cas.”

When they turn to face each other fully, lips meeting to write a new story, Castiel finally recognizes the truth in Gabriel’s words.

There is no darkness that can overpower him now.


	9. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is recovering from a nasty accident, and he's bored. So he can't help but glance across the courtyard to his neighbor Crowley's apartment sometimes. Soon, Cas becomes convinced that Crowley has killed his mother. With the help of Dean, the handsome cop, and Meg, the snarky home health aide, Cas sets to uncovering the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to have written an AU based on "Rear Window." 
> 
> You don't need to have seen "Rear Window" to follow this story. But you should watch it anyway, because it's amazing.
> 
> WARNING: If harm to dogs upsets you, you should probably not read this story. Spoilery details in the end note at the bottom of the page.

Cas doesn’t usually spy on his neighbors. He knows it’s not a nice thing to do.

It’s just that he hasn’t left his apartment in weeks. He’s recovering from an extremely nasty compound fracture in his left leg and has to use a wheelchair to get around until he’s healed. His world has, in essence, narrowed to his tiny studio apartment.

And the windows of the apartment across the courtyard.

He didn’t mean to look, at first. But the man who lives there — his name is Crowley, Cas thinks — tends to have extremely loud arguments with his mother, who occupies the apartment’s second bedroom; the one whose window is directly opposite Cas’ living room.

Whenever the sounds of raised voices and dishes smashing against the wall drift over, it’s hard not to be curious.

Still, Cas feels bad, so he’s very determinedly keeping his eyes to himself today. He tries to focus on the documentary that’s on TV, but he must have nodded off, because when his eyes open, it’s dark.

Inside his apartment, as well as outside.

Cas isn’t sure, at first, what woke him up. But then he hears something.

A scream. A thud, as of a body hitting the ground.

Across the courtyard, Crowley’s silhouette is outlined against his mother’s bedroom window.

Crowley moves to turn off the light, plunging everything into darkness.

***

“Hey, Cas. Brought you coffee.”

Dean strides in through the unlocked apartment door, two to-go cups in hand, his usual bright smile firmly in place. Cas returns it, feeling lighter than he has all day.

“Thank you, Dean. You can put it on the counter. I’ll get to it… after,” he adds with a scowl at Meg, who is currently subjecting him to what she claims is physical therapy but, in reality, is surely some sort of elaborate hell torture.

Meg, the snarky home health aide who comes in a few hours a day to cook Cas’ meals and make sure his muscles don’t atrophy, is basically his only real link to the outside world.

Aside from Dean, of course. But Dean is only here because he feels guilty.

Not that the accident was Dean’s fault. Cas is a news photographer, and his editor sent him out to shoot a vintage car race.

Trying to capture the best possible angle of a gorgeous 1967 Chevy Impala, Cas got too close to the race track and nearly got run over. At the last moment, he threw himself out of the way. Unfortunately, he’d been standing on the edge of a low retaining wall and toppled right over it, to the concrete floor below.

Anyway, Dean had immediately stopped his car and never left Cas’ side as he was taken to the hospital. And ever since then, he’s just sort of been… around. Coming to visit Cas almost every day. Bringing coffee.

Cas wishes he wouldn’t, because he’s developing a fairly large crush on Dean. A very obviously unrequited crush, because why would someone as attractive and sociable as Dean Winchester be interested in a peculiar loner like Cas?

Dean himself tears Cas out of this gloomy train of thought, as he usually does.

“Something wrong, Cas? You look like you barely slept.”

“He fell asleep in the wheelchair again.” Meg rolls her eyes at Dean, who nods grimly. To Cas’ never-ending dismay, Meg and Dean have somehow become allies conspiring against him.

“Cas, you know you’re not supposed to do that. It’s not good for your back,” Dean says, sounding uncannily like a scolding mother hen.

“Whatever,” Cas mumbles, wishing he could just have his coffee already and have Meg stop pulling and prodding at his limbs. “That’s not why I didn’t sleep.”

“Oh, right,” Meg snarks, dropping Cas’ right arm rather unceremoniously into his lap. “He thinks his neighbor murdered his mom.”

Dean makes a rather undignified snorting noise, but quickly schools his face in response to Cas’ disapproving glare. “Um… what makes you think so, Cas?”

Before Cas can even summon enough dignity to respond, Meg interrupts him. Again. “He _heard a noise_ ,” she drawls, carefully infusing each word with its own healthy dose of sarcasm.

“Not just any noise,” Cas mumbles, waving at Dean to hand over his coffee cup. “A scream and a thud.”

Meg cackles, and Cas ignores her, gazing across the courtyard.

That night, Cas stays awake, eyes trained on Crowley’s apartment.

He watches as Crowley leaves at 3 am, carrying two suitcases, slumped over under their heavy weight.

At 4 am, Cas jerks awake when the light turns on in Crowley’s kitchen. He watches as Crowley cleans a wickedly sharp saw in the kitchen sink.

At 6 am, he’s woken by the sound of a woman loudly summoning her small dog, who is digging in one of the flowerbeds at the bottom of the courtyard.

From the window of his mother’s bedroom, Crowley watches too.

***

The next night, Dean asks to stay over.

“It’s just, your place is closer to the station, you know, and I’ve got an early shift, and I really don’t mind crashing on your futon, and you need the company,” Dean rambles. If Cas didn’t know better, he’d say Dean was nervous.

“Sure, Dean. You can stay,” Cas says, resolutely ignoring the butterflies battering at his stomach.

Dean helps Cas get settled on the futon next to him, and they watch a movie. At some point, Dean’s eyes start to slide closed, and his head sinks onto Cas’ shoulder. Cas doesn’t wake him.

They do eventually wake, though, just before midnight.

A woman is shrieking in the courtyard, desperate wails of mourning filling the air. Dean scrambles to pull his legs under him and open the window. Cas cranes his neck and turns his upper body as much as his stupid, clunky cast will let him.

Lights snap on in all the apartments facing the courtyard. They illuminate a distressing scene: a small dog, its head turned at a completely unnatural angle. Next to it, a woman, sobbing.

Cas looks up. The only apartment still in darkness is Crowley’s. But at the window of his mother’s bedroom, a small, red light gleams. The tip of a cigarette.

Cas shares his observation with Dean, who looks thoughtful. Dean’s gaze travels back and forth between the lights around the courtyard, the sad scene below, and the lonely red glow opposite.

“You know, Cas,” he says, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “You may be on to something.”

Cas preens a little, because coming from Dean, that means a lot. If he’s honest, near the top of his considerable list of reasons why Dean is excessively attractive is the fact that he is a cop.

“Here’s the thing, Cas.” Dean meets Cas’ eyes, suddenly more serious than Cas has ever seen him. “I can’t get a warrant to search the guy’s apartment on a hunch and a couple of weird noises.”

“And the dog.” Cas pointedly jerks his head at the window. “And the suitcases. And the saw.”

“Still not enough for a warrant, unfortunately.”

“Why do you think he killed that dog, Dean?” Cas’ voice is rising, ringing with his frustration at being stuck here; being belittled for his suspicions. “That dog was clearly digging somewhere he didn’t want it to dig.”

Dean shrugs, looking apologetic. “Maybe, Cas. But if Crowley did kill that dog, he’ll already have moved whatever he kept down there. Probably to his apartment.”

Cas clenches his jaw in frustration. “Then we need to _do something_ , Dean. Before he has a chance to move it somewhere else. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s evidence that his mother was murdered.”

Dean looks thoughtful. He studies Cas for a moment, then nods. “OK, Cas. At the very least, we can try to prove your theory.”

“How?” It comes out in an embarrassing, hoarse whisper. If Cas is honest with himself, he’s having a hard time believing Dean actually cares enough about his half-mad ravings to take any kind of action.

“I’ll go undercover.” Dean grins, adding a flirtatious wink for good measure. Cas tries not to blush, and fails miserably.

“How do you mean?”

“My dad was an exterminator. I’ve still got some of his old uniforms. I could go over there, pretend building management sent me to check for roaches. Use that as an excuse to look around.”

Dean looks totally unconcerned, so Cas figures he’s justified being concerned enough for the both of them. “What if he catches you at it, Dean? He’s clearly dangerous.”

“I can handle myself, Cas.” To underscore his point, Dean gives Cas’ arm a reassuring squeeze, and Cas’ skin tingles even after Dean’s hand is gone.

“What if someone at the police department finds out about this? Wouldn’t you get in trouble?”

“I'll figure something out, Cas.” The supreme confidence in Dean’s voice can’t help but calm Cas’ nerves, a little. “Really. Trust me. Get in, find the evidence, get out. It’ll be a cake walk.”

***

It’s not a cake walk.

Everything goes fine at first. After his shift, Dean fetches his father’s old coverall uniform with the exterminator’s logo sewn to the front. Then, he returns to Cas’ apartment right around the time Meg also arrives.

This is how they planned it, because Meg’s participation is essential.

Luckily, after a lot of eye-rolling, she looks sort of excited to be part of the whole thing. Though, of course, Cas knows her well enough by now to realize she’d never admit to that.

Dean heads to Cas’ bedroom to change into the uniform, and Cas tries very hard not to think about Dean getting naked right next to his bed.

Dean even thought to bring an official-looking bag, though instead of containing whatever tools of the trade an exterminator has, the bag holds nothing but Dean’s clothes and a lock pick.

“Why does a cop even know how to pick a lock?” Meg asks pointedly.

Dean grins. “Professional secret.”

He heads out the door, and Meg follows, leaving Cas alone with his considerable nerves.

Cas only feels a little bad when he digs out his telephoto lens, attaches it to his camera and points the equipment out the window, for a better view.

It barely takes two minutes for Dean to appear in the corridor in front of Crowley’s apartment. If Cas cranes his neck, he has a decent view of it. Through his camera’s viewfinder, Cas even catches the sly wink Dean aims at him as he raises his hand to knock at the door.

Crowley answers, and Cas watches as Dean flashes the guy his most dazzling smile. The one that says, “I’m harmless and also very handsome. Please invite me into your home.”

It seems to work, because Crowley gestures for Dean to walk inside. Cas watches through the lens as Dean points at various places around the apartment, then cocks a questioning head toward the back of the place, where the second bedroom is.

Crowley shakes his head vehemently, every line of his body tense.

Just as Dean hitches his reassuring smile back on, Crowley’s head snaps around in response to something.

It turns out to be Meg’s knock.

Cas has seen Crowley driving a dark-blue BMW that’s too polished to be anything but his pride and joy. Meg is going to sell Crowley a story about a hit-and-run in the parking lot involving his car. They hope Crowley will be sufficiently freaked out to leave with her, and not wonder why this stranger knows what car he drives. Just in case, Meg offered to be a little flirty and imply that she’s _noticed_ the handsome man and his handsome car.

Cas watches Crowley cast an uncertain glance back at Dean. His expression shifts, and he points an admonishing finger in the direction of the second bedroom. _You can go anywhere but in there_ , it seems to say.

Dean nods, and watches as Crowley turns to follow Meg out the door.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Dean flashes a thumbs-up at Cas and heads straight for the forbidden room.

Cas’ face is pressed so hard against his camera’s viewfinder, he’d swear he’s going to have a permanent indent just above his eyebrow.

Dean embarks on a fast, but methodical search of the room. When he pulls at the bottom drawer of an antique dresser and it doesn’t give, there’s a flash of silver and Dean sets to work with his lock pick.

It takes less than two minutes, by Cas’ wall clock, for Dean to get the thing open, then bend down to retrieve something. He turns around and walks to the window, holding it out for Cas to see. It’s a small box.

Even from across the courtyard, Cas can see it’s filthy. Covered with dirt. Like someone buried it, then dug it back up.

Dean opens the box in full view of Cas. Inside is a beautiful assortment of ostentatious, glittering jewelry. Cas is no expert, but he’d bet his good leg that the contents of that box are worth a small fortune.

Dean shoves the box back into the dresser. It’s no good getting a warrant to search the place if the evidence isn’t there to find. They just need to move fast.

Dean starts to move for the door, ready to make his exit. But then, he stops. He frowns. He crouches down to examine something near the bed.

As Cas’ heart tries to jump out of his throat, Dean puts his back against the bed and pushes, hard. Under Dean’s determined ministrations, the wooden frame slides away slowly, to reveal… something.

Dean looks down at what he’s found, then straightens up, a strange mix of triumph and sadness on his face.

Cas squints through the viewfinder as Dean moves his lips in a slow, exaggerated motion, trying to make it as easy as possible to read them.

 _Blood_ , he is saying.

Cas swallows heavily and almost lowers the camera when, suddenly, something flashes in the edges of the viewfinder.

Blood freezing to ice in his veins, Cas watches as Crowley walks back through the front door.

Crowley is back. And Dean is in the bedroom.

Cas looks on in horror as Dean notices Crowley’s return. It’s too late for him to hide or make a smooth getaway to another room.

Crowley walks straight to the back of the apartment, fury written on every line of his face. He looks back and forth between Dean and the accusing stain on the floor that has been exposed.

Frantic, Cas’ hands dart around, looking for his phone. After 30 seconds that last hours, his sweaty fingers close around it.

He doesn’t dare to take his eyes off the scene unfolding across the courtyard, but he has to, for just a second, to punch in the numbers.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Please, help. My friend is in danger. Someone is attacking him.”

Cas gives the address of Crowley’s apartment (which he’d mercifully thought to memorize before Dean left, just in case) and hangs up.

Through the viewfinder, he watches as Dean holds up two placating hands, backing away. But there is nowhere for him to go, except the wall.

Crowley lunges, hands scrabbling for Dean’s throat.

Cas’ breath comes faster, panic tightening his lungs. Dean is a cop, he tries to remind himself. Dean is taller and stronger than this stocky little man.

But Crowley has the power of desperation on his side, and it quickly becomes clear that this isn’t going to be quick or easy.

Crowley is crowding Dean, never moving far enough away for Dean to land a decent punch. His hands are still trying to close around Dean’s throat, even as Dean gets a grip on Crowley’s biceps, trying to push him away.

The minutes tick by as Cas watches the mute struggle play out, powerless to help.

Finally, in the distance, the sound of sirens, coming closer.

Realizing he’s been forgetting to breathe, Cas inhales deeply. At that moment, maybe heartened by the sound of help coming his way, Dean finally lands a punch.

Even from a distance, Cas can tell it’s a solid hit.

Crowley slumps to the floor.

Dean looks down at his recent antagonist, shaking with exertion. Then, he turns, facing Cas’ window to give him a cocky grin and a thumbs-up.

Behind Dean, Crowley rises off the floor and tackles him from behind, pushing him straight through the open bedroom window.

Dean’s body lands with a thud at the bottom of the courtyard even as shouts of “Police! Open up!” sound from beyond Crowley’s door.

***

It’s a good thing, Cas thinks, that Crowley lived on the second floor. As opposed to, say, the third or fourth. Dean might have died from a fall like that.

As it is, Dean has simply gained a new, up-close-and-personal appreciation of what Cas’ life was like for several long, mind-numbingly boring weeks.

Cas is leaning against Dean’s kitchen island while he considers these things, still enjoying his newly regained freedom to stand on his own two feet.

On the couch, some 10 feet away, Dean is snoring softly, his broken leg elevated on a small pile of cushions.

Caught in the act of attempted murder, Crowley confessed quickly once the police broke down his door. Cas knows his mother’s body has since been found, but he didn’t care to inquire too much into the details. Dean did find out from a chatty colleague that Crowley planned to sell his mother’s jewelry once her disappearance had blown over, and use the proceeds to fund a leisurely retirement.

Watching Dean scrunch up his nose as a beam of sunlight hits his face, Cas moves to the window and closes the blinds.

He sinks down onto the couch next to where Dean’s head is resting, and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. Because kissing is something they do now.

Feeling at peace with the world, Cas slides down and molds himself to Dean’s side. Outside, there is the sound of laughter, then something breaking, and a child’s wail. Cas closes his eyes. There is nothing out there to interest him. Not nearly as much as the lips right in front of him, curving up in a sleepy smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, a murderer kills a small dog to cover up his crime. There is a brief reference to the dog's dead body and its owner's grief.


	10. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean always figured his Heaven would be that hunt in Dodge City. Funny thing is, that's sort of what happened... except Cas pulled some strings to make a few changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware: This is technically an MCD fic, but the feels are warm and fuzzy.

“Dude! Check it out. Clay Allison — gun fighter extraordinaire, right? And Curly Bill Brocius, who, little fun fact here...”

As Dean strides through the motel room, giddy with excitement at the pictures and memorabilia lining the walls, the scene freezes around him.

Sam is caught mid-eye roll, while Jack’s expression is stuck at gently inquisitive, his face turned toward Cas, who is returning a wordless “what can you do, that’s just Dean.”

Behind the three frozen figures is another Cas, leaning against the doorframe. Dean smiles at him.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.” Cas gives him that little half-smile, the one that lives in just one of the corners of his mouth and a little bit in the eyes.

Dean can always tell the difference between the real Cas and the version of Cas who’s here all the time, hunting a ghoul with him in Dodge City. Just like he used to be able to tell the difference between dreaming about Cas and dreaming with the real Cas for company.

In the past, whenever Dean wondered what his Heaven might look like, he always thought it would be this hunt. Well, a version of this hunt without a dead security guard; a version where they all get to go home together and keep working on being a family.

Funny thing is, that’s exactly what he got when his time came, even though he always thought Heaven was a “real memories only” type of deal. He has a feeling Cas pulled some strings for him, especially because the one time he asked about it, Cas got all pink in the face and changed the subject.

Dean waves at Cas to come over, and watches in silent amusement as Cas brushes the shoulder of his frozen double. Dean meets him halfway across the room and circles his arms around Cas’ waist, holding him close.

Dean had been a little worried that touching Cas would be different, now. For one thing, he’s not actually sure he has a physical body anymore. (Cas tried to explain how the whole thing works once, but if Dean’s honest, he tuned him out after a while. There were a lot of quantum-so-and-so’s and Dean-what-you-have-to-understand-is’s involved.)

Point is, it feels the same. Cas still smells like rain and electricity and cheap laundry detergent. He still feels warm and solid in Dean’s arms. It’s nice.

Dean pulls back, but he doesn’t go far. Just far enough to look at Cas; make sure he still looks the same.

He does.

“How’re things at the bunker?”

“Fine,” Cas says, running a gentle hand down the side of Dean’s arm. “Sam and Eileen came back from their honeymoon a little late. They found a hunt along the way.”

Dean chuckles. “’Course they did.”

Cas smiles softly in response. “They miss you, of course. Especially Sam.”

“You tell them though, right? That I’m doing just fine?”

“Of course, Dean.”

If he’s honest with himself, Dean misses Sam too. The real Sam. But living humans can’t come to Heaven, so he makes do with what he’s got. Which is occasional visits from Jack and more than occasional visits from Cas.

Dean doesn’t actually have a good grasp of time up here, but if he had to guess, he’d say Cas spends quite a bit more time in Dean’s Heaven than he does at the bunker.

Not that Dean’s complaining.

Cas inclines his head at the saggy, comfortable couch next to the motel room’s door, and they walk over to it. When they sit down, Cas reaches out to take Dean’s hand in his, lacing their fingers.

“Tell me about what you’ve been doing since the last time I was here.”

“Aside from hunting a ghoul, you mean?” Dean grins, squeezing Cas’ hand.

“Yes, Dean. Aside from the obvious.” Cas’ hyper-dramatic eye rolls never stop being hilarious, and Dean considers it a lost day if he hasn’t been the cause of at least one. So, score one for this day.

“Alright, alright.” Dean sits back, thinks. Pretty soon after he first got here, Ash showed up and taught Dean how to move from one person’s Heaven to another without getting in trouble with the angels. It’s a pretty useful way to keep yourself entertained.

“I looked in on Bobby, but all he ever wants to talk about is Tori Spelling, so I got out of there pretty quick. Hung out at the Roadhouse with Ash, Ellen and Jo for a good long while though.”

Dean shuffles closer to Cas on the couch, putting his head on a trench-coated shoulder. Cas plants a gentle kiss on top of his head and asks, “How’s Charlie?”

“Great,” Dean mumbles absently, more focused on brushing his thumb softly over Cas’ knuckles. “Very busy planning her next Moondoor campaign.”

They’re quiet for a while. Then, Dean feels Cas tense up next to him, and he knows what’s coming.

“Dean, I miss you around the bunker.”

Dean nods, but he doesn’t say anything, because it’s best to wait and listen when Cas gets like this.

“It doesn’t seem fair that we didn’t get more time before…”

Before Dean took another soul bomb into himself and used it to kill Chuck and Amara. Two birds, one very large, very lethal stone.

At least he got to tell Cas how he felt, and they got to have their first kiss. Their last kiss, too, in a way. Except kissing Cas up here feels just as good, and they’ve done that plenty of times.

So Dean does it now. Just a gentle, chaste touch of their lips.

“Did you talk to the other angels?”

Cas nods, and Dean sits up to look at him properly. It’s typical Cas, sitting on news like this and making Dean work for it.

“Well c’mon, spit it out. What did they say?”

There’s only the smallest bit of hesitation before Cas speaks. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Dean’s always watched Cas more closely than anybody else.

“They say that, as a reward for my services in helping to restore Heaven, I‘ll be allowed to join you here permanently instead of going to The Empty.”

“Holy shit, Cas! That’s great news.” Dean surges forward and kisses Cas again. But something about Cas’ stiff posture doesn’t seem right, so Dean pulls back.

“What?”

Cas bites his lip, and when he looks up to meet Dean’s eyes, he looks devastated. “But not now, Dean. After I die. My powers are not what they used to be, but I _am_ still an angel. My death could be hundreds of years away. Maybe thousands.”

Dean pulls Cas into his arms, nestling him against his chest. “You think I got anywhere else to be?” he whispers into Cas’ untidy hair. “Take as long as you want. You know where to find me.”

Cas nods and, with a soft sigh, winds his arms around Dean’s waist.

They sit like that, holding each other, for a long time, or perhaps no time at all. It’s always hard to be sure.

Eventually, with a last, tender kiss, Cas gets up to go.

As soon as Cas has passed out of sight, Dean starts talking like he wasn’t ever interrupted in the first place.

“… who, little fun fact here, was killed by Wyatt Earp himself.”

He turns, just a little, to watch Sam complete his eye roll.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are deeply appreciated.
> 
> Come see me on [my tumblr](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com)!


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